


Theory of Relativity

by pricklygreenmage



Category: The Worst Witch (TV), The Worst Witch - All Media Types, The Worst Witch Series - Jill Murphy
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pricklygreenmage/pseuds/pricklygreenmage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A student has vanished from Cackle's Academy, and as Mr. Hallow has pointed out, that musn’t be ignored. An inspector will call tomorrow at noon,” Miss Cackle said, tiredly. </p>
<p>“Who’s the inspector,” Imogen asked, knowing who it must be but hoping she was wrong. </p>
<p>Voice heavy with irony, Miss Hardbroom responded. </p>
<p>“Mistress Hecketty Broomhead.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theory of Relativity

**Author's Note:**

> The Worst Witch and associated characters belong to ITV and Jill Murphy. 
> 
> The quotes at the beginning of each chapter are all from Albert Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. 
> 
> Relationships: HB/Drill (slow burn UST). Drill&Mildred and HB&Mildred gen. 
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated. I hope you enjoy!

“Time is an illusion.”

_Tuesday, 2 nd February, 1999._

_1:38 p.m._

Imogen opened the staffroom door, stomach clenching with guilt and nerves. Miss Hardbroom stood, straight-backed, staring out of the window. The room appeared to be otherwise empty. Imogen took a deep breath and stepped inside.

“Miss Hardbroom?” she said.

“Yes, Miss Drill?” Miss Hardbroom responded, with her customary hauteur, turning to face Imogen.

“I,” Imogen began, then paused. “It’s Sybil Hallow.”

“Oh?” Miss Hardbroom raised her eyebrows. “Whatever has she done now? Joined forces with Mildred Hubble and begun terrifying the first years with her egregious lack of broomstick flying ability?” she asked, voice and manner oozing sarcasm.  

Normally, Imogen would have leapt to the defence of both girls. But not today. Not now.

“No. Not exactly,” Imogen said. Deciding that it would not do her health any favours to test Miss Hardbroom’s patience, she blurted, “She’s missing. I was doing a cross country run with the second years and, well, she must have gotten lost on the way.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Miss Hardbroom snapped. “Are you completely incapable of taking charge of ten second years for one hour?”

Imogen scowled. Of course Miss Hardbroom would immediately criticise her. Imogen was queasy with worry for Sybil; Sybil had been her responsibility, after all. But Miss Hardbroom would take advantage of every opportunity to find fault with Imogen and her teaching methods.

“I was with them the whole way,” she told Miss Hardbroom, knowing she sounded defensive. “I didn’t see her slip off, and neither did any of the other girls. I’ve looked everywhere, Miss Hardbroom. Retraced the route we took, but there’s no sign of her.”

Miss Hardbroom scowled. “Well, I suppose we had better go look for her then. Follow me,” she said crisply, and walked towards the staffroom door. 

* * *

 

_4:43 p.m._

Miss Cackle paused, a forkful of cheesecake halfway to her mouth. “Sybil Hallow? I must say she doesn’t strike me as the sort to wander off on her own.”

“That, Miss Cackle, is precisely what worries me,” said Miss Hardbroom. 

“Hmm, yes, well. You’ve attempted a tracking spell, I assume?” Miss Cackle asked.

“I have, but to no avail. It seems that Sybil, if she has in fact run off, is no longer within the boundaries of the academy.”

Imogen sat in the hard, wooden chair at the hard, wooden table and wished that she were outside, walking or jogging or cycling, distracting herself from her unbearable, jittery sense of helplessness.

“I’ve searched the woods top to bottom,” Imogen told Miss Cackle, keeping her voice carefully steady. “And Miss Hardbroom’s been searching on broomstick. It’s as though she’s vanished off the face of the earth.”

Miss Cackle frowned. “Have you checked Cosey’s tea rooms? And what about her bedroom? She may have doubled back.”

“Naturally!” said Miss Hardbroom, voice laced with irritation. “Not to mention every café in the vicinity and every other room in the school.”  

“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to contact Sybil’s parents, as much as I hate to give Mr. Hallow any reason to doubt my competence as headmistress. And we ought to let Ethel know, too, of course.”

It would be her own fault, Imogen realised, if Mr. Hallow decided that Miss Cackle was incompetent. She fought down the ensuing guilt. She would not let that happen. She’d made a mistake, but she would own it, and do everything within her power to rectify it.

Her mind made up, Imogen straightened her shoulders. “I’ll go find Ethel,” she said, firmly. She pushed back her chair and stood up. 

* * *

 

_Wednesday, 3 rd February, 1999._

_4:05 p.m._

Miss Hardbroom paced, somehow managing to make the pointless movement look purposeful.

Miss Bat sat at the table, spooning salt into her tea. Glancing at Miss Hardbroom, she said, “I think you’re all panicking for nothing. She’ll turn up by the end of the week, I bet, right as rain. I’m sure she simply got distracted by the sweet scent of the air and the glorious sounds of summer.”

“That would be a miracle, especially considering that it is, in fact, winter,” Miss Hardbroom said, tone sardonic.

Imogen only half-listened. She kept seeing the look of fear on Ethel’s face when Imogen had told her about Sybil. Ethel had quickly hidden it behind angry scorn, denouncing Sybil, the school, and Imogen herself, but Imogen knew Ethel was frightened for her sister. However unwilling she was to show it.

Miss Hardbroom quickened her steps. “I might have known these ridiculous cross country ventures of yours would end badly, Miss Drill. Pupils belong in the classroom. They ought to be studying, not frittering away their precious time on pointless activities!” she said.

Imogen felt shaky with anxiety whenever she thought of Sybil, whenever she pictured her, alone in the woods and terrified. What if she were approached by Agatha Cackle and her coven? Or a murderer, or a pedophile, or … No. Thinking like that wouldn’t help find Sybil. She needed to keep a clear head. She had made a mistake, but she would fix it. She had to fix it.

She clenched her hands together under the table, trying to stop them from shaking.

She knew it was her fault. But, _God_ , Miss Hardbroom made her furious. The woman was a cold, hard, unfeeling tyrant.  

“And just what exactly would you propose, Miss Hardbroom?” Imogen snapped. “That we lock all the girls inside and refuse to let them out at all?”

“I propose that we instill in them the importance of hard work and mental discipline, which will hardly be achieved by allowing them to run needlessly about the school grounds on _cross country marathons_!”

The sound of the staffroom door swinging open cut through the silence following Miss Hardbroom’s tirade. Imogen and Miss Hardbroom looked up as Miss Cackle entered. Miss Bat gave a contented hum as she sipped her tea.  

Miss Cackle sunk into a chair, one hand clasping a folded piece of paper. She looked exhausted. “I’m afraid, ladies, that Sybil’s disappearance is no longer the only thing we have to worry about,” she said.

“And why’s that?” Miss Hardbroom snapped, voice inquisitively shrill.   

Miss Cackle opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. She handed Miss Hardbroom the piece of paper. Imogen watched, mouth dry, as Miss Hardbroom unfolded it, glanced over it. Miss Hardbroom’s face grew ashen and she slowly lowered herself into a chair.

“She can’t …” Miss Hardbroom’s voice wavered. She took a shaky breath, clearly trying to regain her composure. Of course she was, Imogen thought with a mental scowl. Constance Hardbroom always had to be composed and in-control and ruthlessly self-disciplined. Otherwise she might have to admit that she was human.

“She can,” said Miss Cackle tiredly. “A student has vanished from Cackle’s Academy, and as Mr. Hallow has pointed out, that musn’t be ignored. An inspector will call tomorrow at noon.”

“Who’s the inspector,” Imogen asked, knowing who it must be but hoping she was wrong.

Voice heavy with irony, Miss Hardbroom responded.

“Mistress Hecketty Broomhead.”

* * *

 

_Monday, 8 th February, 1999._

_8:00 a.m._

Mistress Hecketty Broomhead marched through the doors of Cackle’s Academy at exactly eight o’clock. She ignored Miss Cackle’s greeting and didn’t look at Imogen as she passed her. Her eyes were trained ahead and her expression was stern.     

Imogen tried to remember Wilhelmina Wormwood, tried to picture the severe Mistress Broomhead as the bratty little girl she had been.

She almost succeeded, and then, “Constance!” Mistress Broomhead snapped, and Miss Hardbroom, standing beside Imogen, flinched.

“Yes, Mistress Broomhead?” Miss Hardbroom said, the slightest tremor in her voice.

“Follow me,” was all Mistress Broomhead said, and Miss Hardbroom did. She shot Imogen a nervous glance as she went.  

The moment Mistress Broomhead and Miss Hardbroom rounded the corner, Imogen released a sigh of relief. The sight of the indomitable Miss Hardbroom so agitated was alarming.

She glanced at Miss Cackle, who looked back at her, her eyebrows furrowed in worry. 

* * *

 

_10:00 a.m._

Imogen put down her teacup and looked up as Miss Hardbroom walked into the staffroom, her face pale. 

“She wishes to speak to you, Miss Drill,” Miss Hardbroom said. “In Miss Cackle’s office.” 

"She wants to speak to me?” Imogen asked, surprised.

“Yes, and I suggest you go to her immediately. She abhors the very notion of wasting time.”

“Of course,” Imogen said. She stood, and walked towards the door, leaving her tea to grow cold. “But I don’t see why she’d want to speak to me. Unless she knows that I was teaching when Sybil …” 

“I don’t see how she possibly could,” said Miss Hardbroom, interrupting her. Imogen thought she sounded worried, but perhaps she was imagining things. 

Imogen refused to feel anxious as she walked down the corridor, but her heart sped up as she approached Miss Cackle’s office. The doorknob felt icy beneath her fingers.

“You certainly took your time,” was the first thing Mistress Broomhead said when Imogen entered the room.

Imogen made no reply. Had it not been for Miss Hardbroom’s obvious trepidation, Imogen would not have found Mistress Broomhead frightening in the least. But she kept remembering Miss Hardbroom flinching at the sound of this woman calling her name.

“You are the Physical Education teacher, I understand.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Imogen said anyway.

“Ethel Hallow has informed me that you are responsible for her sister’s disappearance.”

Imogen’s throat felt dry. She had known Ethel would complain to her father. She hadn't considered that Ethel's father would inform Mistress Broomhead. The ticking of the clock on the wall above Miss Cackle's desk was very loud.  

“It was an accident,” Imogen said, finally. “She disappeared during a cross country run. I, I mean, we, that is, the staff have looked everywhere.”

“Obviously not, or they would have found her. Are you a witch, girl?”

_Girl?_

“No, I’m not,” Imogen told her.

“You have no magic whatsoever?”

“No,” Imogen said, gritting her teeth.

“Well, well. It appears Miss Cackle has let standards slip to a shocking extent.”

“I believe Miss Cackle thinks the girls can only benefit from diversity amongst her staff,” Imogen said, trying to sound calm. 

“I doubt that.”

“Well, I don’t!” Imogen snapped. She’d had more than enough of this overblown shrew of a witch.

Mistress Broomhead’s eyebrows came together. “I beg your pardon?” she said, with self-important indignation.

Imogen took a breath. It would be foolish to provoke Mistress Broomhead, who had the power to make all their lives miserable.

“I like to think that competence had something to do with it, too,” Imogen said.

Mistress Broomhead sniffed. “You may go, Miss Drill. I called you in here to warn you against losing any more students in future.”

Imogen glared. She met Mistress Broomhead’s eyes, and froze. For an instant, for a single tick of the big hand of a clock, Mistress Broomhead’s pale grey irises looked a dark, deep brown.  

* * *

 

_Thursday, 11 th February, 1999/1899._

_6:10 a.m._

Imogen pulled on a T-shirt, shivering as the freezing air raised goosebumps on her sleep-warm skin. Yawning, she glanced at her watch. Plenty of time for a jog before her first class of the day.  

She pulled open her bedroom door and stepped into the corridor. A sudden wave of dizziness hit her, mid-step. She braced herself against the cold stone wall and tried to take deep breaths through her nose. What on earth was going on?

As abruptly as it had begun, the dizziness passed, and Imogen opened her eyes. And stared. Half a second ago, the corridor had been empty. Now, it was teeming with students: full of chattering voices and footsteps and slamming doors.

A girl Imogen had never seen before gave her a curious look. Her blonde hair was in two braids and she was wearing a pinafore over her black school dress. An actual pinafore. Imagine felt faint. Habit compelled her to walk, on shaky legs, in the direction of the staffroom. She kept one hand on the wall as though it could somehow anchor her in reality. Most students she passed stared at her and Imogen returned their stares with knee-jerk smiles.   

She reached the staffroom. The door was ajar, and peering in, Imogen could see that it was no longer a staffroom but someone’s office. A man stood, his back to Imogen, talking to someone out of sight on the other side of the room. He wore a large black overcoat.

Imogen closed her eyes. Everything felt simultaneously hyper-real and dreamlike.

The man was speaking. “Please tell me you are not serious."

A woman responded. “I fear I cannot. It is the truth. I cannot think what else we can do.”

“Well, we must do something! Minerva is the third to have vanished since Christmas. We have no choice but to take action!” the man snapped.

“And what would you recommend?”

The woman’s voice sounded tantalisingly familiar, but the harder Imogen tried to place it, the more its owner’s identity eluded her.

“Miss Drill?” The whisper made Imogen startle and turn. Mildred Hubble stood behind her, expression bewildered. “What’s going on?” Mildred asked.

Imogen shook her head mutely, and held a finger to her lips without knowing why. She turned back to the half-open door. As she did, a large clock mounted on the wall inside the office caught her eye. Its muffled ticking seemed to grow louder the longer Imogen stared at it. Another rush of dizziness overwhelmed her, and the room seemed to tilt, then click into place. 

* * *

 

_Saturday, 13 th February, 1999. _

_11:03 a.m._

As abruptly as it had begun, the dizziness was gone, and so were the clock, and the pinafore-clad students, and the man in the overcoat.

Imogen stared through the open door into the empty staffroom.

“Miss Drill?” Mildred said again, and Imogen turned to stare at her. Mildred wore an expression of numb shock.

The clicking of hobnailed boots on wood forestalled Imogen’s response. Miss Hardbroom rounded the corner, arms crossed, expression mutinous.

“Where,” Miss Hardbroom said, with perfect, terrifying control, “have you been for the past two days?”

“Two days?” Imogen said in disbelief. She exchanged a look of alarm with Mildred.

“Yes, Miss Drill. You have been gone for two days,” Miss Hardbroom’s voice was quiet, her tone lethal. “As you might imagine, we have been searching for you everywhere. We have contacted every single person of your acquaintance, including your parents.” 

Imogen winced, but Miss Hardbroom was not finished. “I personally have attempted almost every tracking spell in existence, so I am certain you can envisage my surprise when, in the midst of yet another attempt, the spell suddenly works and leads me, not to some obscure location to where have you have been spirited off by kidnappers or evil witches, but to the staffroom!" Miss Hardbroom's voice grew progressively louder and progressively more shrill. 

Imogen heard footsteps approaching and exhaled in relief when Miss Cackle appeared.

“Imogen! Mildred!” Miss Cackle exclaimed. “You gave us quite a scare, disappearing like that. Are you alright?”

Imogen smiled at her. “We’re fine.” She glanced at Mildred, who nodded. “Just confused,” Imogen added.

“Well, why don’t we all go into the staffroom for a cup of tea, and you can tell us what happened.” 

* * *

 

_12:02 p.m._

Imogen ran her finger around and around the edge of her teacup until it caught in a chip.

“So, you see, I saw Miss Drill and followed her, thinking she’d know what was going on,” Mildred finished.

“How very odd,” Miss Cackle said. Miss Hardbroom pressed her lips together.

“What most concerns me,” Miss Cackle continued, “is that this may happen again.”

“Quite,” agreed Miss Hardbroom.

“Although, that may not be a bad thing. It’s possible that Sybil was transported to the same place. Or time, as the case may be.”

Imogen nodded. She had thought the same thing as soon as she had calmed down enough to think at all.

“Our best bet, I think, would be to have someone keep an eye on you both at all times, who can go with you, or inform me, if you vanish again."

“Yes, I agree,” Miss Hardbroom said.

“And I think, Constance, that you are by far the most qualified for the job.”

“But, Miss Cackle!” Miss Hardbroom protested, then glanced at Imogen and Mildred, and gave a loud sigh. “I suppose it can’t be helped. Very well. I suppose I shall act as your glorified babysitter.”

Imogen looked at Mildred, whose expression of horror no doubt mirrored Imogen’s own. She couldn’t deny, however, that it would be reassuring to have a powerful witch nearby if she ever had to go through such an experience again.

“Wonderful! Constance’s chambers, I believe, have a spare bed and an adjoining room, which should serve our purposes nicely,” Miss Cackle said, a hint of mischief in her smile. 


End file.
